


Tested By The Flame

by Sildominarin



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Arthur is a Decent King, Chivalry, Family Dynamics, Gawain Knows His Own Truth, Medieval Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 01:57:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sildominarin/pseuds/Sildominarin
Summary: There are demands of him, placed there by the Code of Chivalry, and the expectations of his brothers, but Sir Gawain has always followed chivalry in his own way.He may come to regret that, before the end.





	Tested By The Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runwithneedles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runwithneedles/gifts).



> Gawain has always been very interesting to me. Always described as the most courteous knight, the most chivalrous knight, his refusal to stand guard at Guinevere's pyre- despite the personal consequences that follows- has always caught me. This tries to delve into that moment. I hope it serves.

There is a pall over Camelot. 

Harvest time has come again, and the air bears the crisp edge of winter’s distant promise. It is a time for the reapers to be at their business, piling up fragrant bundles of wheat and barley into the great wagons that will transport them to the capital. It is a time when the city markets are abundant with those goods that the same farmers- purses heavy with the gold that such a harvest will net- will need for the coming months. The Harvest Fair is a time of music and song, the sights and smells lending a gay backdrop to the tournaments that draw so many wandering knights back to their liege lords.

But while the days have grown short and the wagons stream through the city gates there are no festivities to greet them. The market bustles, but those there move quickly through their tasks under the wait of the tension. There are no minstrels, no ladies come to throw tokens to their knights, no pennants or banners or shields the paint the city in the colors of celebration. Only the people, hesitant beneath the declaration from their king, and the pyre that rises- in cruel mockery of the Beltane fires that would burn in better times- before the castle.

For Camelot’s champion has been banished, and their queen sentenced to die-- there is no revelry to be had.

The same pall over the town grips the castle in its unrelenting pressure, and even as knights pour in at their king’s command there is no joy. Friends long separated by duty may once have celebrated this homecoming, but there is no joy in the endless streaming of stone faced warriors into the keep. They have come when their Lord King called, to stand witness against one of their own and to guard the just execution of the Queen to whom they have all sworn fealty.

There will be no celebration this year.

It is whispered, mostly among the servants in those moments between carrying linen and water for these unexpected guests, that the queen is sequestered in her bower. With her ladies,they say, taking these last precious hours to commend herself to God before the flames. The King has allowed his this brief grace, sparing her the shame of the dungeons that house the less noble condemned. A small mercy, it is mostly agreed, but fitting for a husband to grant even an unfaithful wife. 

An unfaithful queen, who has thrown her country into such disarray, cannot escape this fate. That is also well agreed upon, when those who have no knowledge of the intimate events dare to speak of it. She knew her duty, and left the king no choice. Guinevere is well loved in Camelot, and her presence will be greatly missed-- but in failing her vows she has brought this upon herself. There is pity for her fate, and even more for her imagined fear, and those far enough away from Camelot may have more opinions besides, but it is well accepted that the King is following the law, and that such obedience will be a comfort-- even kings are not above the law, and so the blame must therefore give him no pause.

But Sir Gawain, who rides through the unquiet city to this shadowed keep, has no such illusions.

He came with all those Knights sworn to Arthur and his Round Table, driven by obedience owed to king and crown when the shield that so defines his life was made his. But as Camelot looms large in his vision, and the hostlers come to take the unending stream of mounts to their well earned rest, he has another task before him. Knight he may be, and loyal to his king, but Gawain is also nephew and kin to that same crown-- and blood has its own duties.

It is no easy task to find Camelot’s monarch when he has chosen isolation, but those selfsame servants who seem to know each of the doomed queen’s steps do not led astray the knight who treats the scullery made as gallantly as a court lady, and before the sun has reached it’s zenith he has located the king. It seems cruel irony that it would be in the empty and ransacked quarters of the flown Lancelot, but at least there is solitude in the choice. 

There is no great dissonance in age, between himself and his mother’s brother, but to Gawain Arthur has always seemed older beyond his ears. He has heard the songs strive to give voice to the fairness of their kings visage, to the comeliness of face and vigour of body, but his uncle has as ever defied those faithful descriptions. Handsome he may be among other men, but Gawain has ever been struck -not by the royal features - but instead by the authority ingrained into them. Arthur is above all a king who wears wisdom and power like some ethereal garment, and it has served him well.

But that same authority seem worn now by the strain in the wise eyes, the pale face as King turns to Knight. Gawain drops to a knee, fist pressed to the breast of his halberk as he is acknowledged, and chivalry has its own protocol to follow.  
“You sent word for me, your Highness?”

“Rise, Sir Gawain.” Even his voice- sonorous and strong when addressing his people- bears the strain of recent days. “I thank you for your speed in attending on me, particularly in such trying times.”

“I hear and obey, my lord.” It is a simple exchange, social nicety set out between crown and subject, but in the stillness of the room it is a paltry attempt. 

“And for that I am grateful. There are no good roads, with the harvest coming in.” 

“You called us. We would be nowhere else. Wagons would not prevent us.” Duty discharged it is easier to speak freely, and yet there is a long moment of hesitation before Gawain speaks again. “Then it is true, Uncle, what has come to pass between Lancelot and the queen?”

He almost regrets the question, watching the strain grow on his king’s face, but the knight must know. He stands in the room of a friend, waiting to hear of the fate of his aunt and burdened with a task anathema to his very being. There can be no doubt, if he is to step into this duty. 

“Yes. I am sure you have heard the…..the gist of it in town.” Sighing, Arthur rubs a hand over his eyes and takes a rough hewn chair for his own. “Guinevere and Si...and Lancelot were caught together, unfaithful to their vows and to me. Lancelot has fled, and Guinevere…”

“It is...as I had heard.” Heard, and hoped to be false. “I would not have suspected...it is the law, of course, but I had hoped that--”

“That Lancelot would not be culpable?” The tone is harsh, and Gawain- forcibly reminded that it is not himself alone who considered Lancelot a friend- winces.

“Capable, rather. He has ever fought beside me, and I count him friend. But you have called me, my lord, and I am here.”

“I am not ignorant, nephew, of that sacrifice.” And there is some comfort, that his uncle knows his struggle. “I have called you, and your brothers in both blood and arms, to see justice fulfilled. What has been done cannot be undone, but I fear that unrest will plague us until it is seen through to the end. I will have knights by the pyre to prevent interference in this, and to this task I charge you.”

Once, years ago with the fear of death before him and a promise of safety in his grasp, Gawain had broken vows placed on him and gone in shame to face the Green Knight to whom he had made the vow to. It had been a burden on him, even after this same king and the knights of his table had absolved him of his failings, and from the moment he had accepted the belted linen Gawain had wished for the chance to begin again.  
To hold true to the Code of CHivalry and loyalty that had always guided him, to be the sort of knight that a king would welcome into his service. To be worthy of the companionship of Lancelot and Kay and all those who shared his vocation. He was a Knight of Camelot, a man of his oath, and the truth that he had made the wrong decision even so long ago had always been a burden to him.

But as Sir Gawain stared into the face of his uncle and monarch, standing where his friend had lived and faced with the duty of guarding his queen’s pyre as she died, there was no burden on his choice.

“I cannot do what you have asked of me, your highness.”

“Sir Gawain, I have called my most trusted knights here to stand with me on this. It gives me no pleasure, but it must--”

“I cannot, Uncle.”

There is more strain in his voice than Gawain had been expecting, and yet it serves as his truth. He has sworn to serve the tenants of Chivalry, to defend women and combat evil and guard those who are weaker than him. He is a knight of the King who brought harmony where there was once only chaos, and he has stood by his uncle through battles he did not expect to survive. But the duty Arthur has placed on his shoulders, the task given in this moment, is counterpoint to his very nature. 

“I know that what you say is true, that the law demands this, and I do not gainsay you. But what you ask of me...I cannot call myself knight, be worthy of those vows I have made and those tenants I have embraced, if I do as you command in this. It will be my undoing.” The silence that follows is tense, and it drags at him. “I am sorry.”

“Not so much as I.” There is a lightness in Arthur’s voice that startles his knight, but there is no time to question it. “Let no man ever claim themselves more honorable than you in this moment. I would not ask it of any man to betray their better angels. Let there be none to doubt your oaths, Sir Gawain, nor of the wisdom that those vows have given you. Your brothers will stand this vigil-- that is enough. You will rejoin them on your travels when it is complete, and with my blessing. ”

And the knight can only bow, relieved beyond words to take his leave while still in his king’s favor. For Sir Gawain is a knight of the Round Table, sworn to both crown and code, and he can now walk firmly between both in the eyes of God.


End file.
